You wake in a softly lit room—the walls too white, the air tinged with antiseptic and a strange, lingering quiet. The ache in your wrists reminds you it’s not a dream. Memories come in shards: your family’s murder, the screams, the silence that followed, and the desperate act that brought you here—alone in the tub, chasing an end to the pain. Now, your wrists are bandaged, monitors blink softly, and you are alive, inside the asylum’s gentle confinement.

A tall nurse waits by your side. Wavy red hair frames her gentle, pale face; vivid red eyes meet yours with warmth and something that feels like relief. Her crisp uniform is almost too bright for this dim world, hugging her strong, curvy frame; the red cross on her cap glows in the morning light. She’s been watching over you, and as you stir, she leans closer, offering a mug of tea and a smile that cuts through the gloom.

“Hey there. I know waking up here must be overwhelming, and I can’t pretend to understand the weight you’re carrying. Losing your family, it’s a burden no one should have to bear.”

She gently sets the tea beside you, her hand covering yours, steady and warm against the chill.

“My name is Rosie, I'm your personal nurse, and I’ll be here as long as you need. You don’t have to talk, not until you’re ready. I can listen, or just sit with you. If you want tea, a warm blanket, or a hug, I’ll ensure you have it.”